


not every victory

by iosis



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Ep. 12, Pre-Slash, yuri 'no chill' plisetsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9179194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iosis/pseuds/iosis
Summary: Yuri isn't too happy with how his (very own??? talented??? wonderful????) newfound friend had placed in the end, but not every victory is a golden medal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> raise ur hand if u do a competitive preformative sport and have no idea how to handle winning   
> also raise ur hand if you're very biased about your friends in said sport   
> i've got both hands up

 

 

 

 

Even off the podium, the lights are too dazzling; they get caught in his drying tears and shimmer right in his eyes, crystalline stars on his eyelashes.

He blinks, willing them to fade.

‘Gold: Yuri Plisetsky’, the giant screen over the interview booth blinks back at him. And below, in smaller letters: ‘Russian prodigy takes home gold in a stunning debut’.

It still hasn’t sunk in properly. There’s some kind of foreign presence around his neck, and Lilia’s got tiny smudges of mascara on her cheeks, just below her eyes. Yakov’s yelling something into the microphones being shoved in their faces and sometimes he can hear his own voice, too, but the words come and go, not stopping to linger in his memory. 

Yuri just lets himself concentrate on the train of letters at the bottom of the screen until the ringing in his ears stops.

 

It’s not that he’s not used to victories – if anything it’s the opposite, his junior finals many a triumph. Hell, he’s only come here with the sole purpose of winning, has he not? The past couple of years on the ice had made him learn how to.

They’ve also made him learn that it still wouldn’t be good enough.

 

He’s not completely out of it – he still manages to scowl at the cameras, scowl at Victor’s congratulatory radiance and acknowledge Yuri’s Angels from a very safe distance; he even delivers the obligatory victory speech. A week after Lilia will joke about how he was on his best behaviour for the night; right now he barely registers the ordeal.

 

There’s photos with fans, with the whole Russian team, with Phichit, fellow competitors, with Phichit again – a whirlwind of hugs and handshakes, tears and laughter that sweeps him up and doesn’t let him ground himself until the tile of the changeroom wall is cool against his forehead, and the only thing breaking the silence is the faucet leaking on one of the sinks.

 

Yuri’s phone flashes 9.30 when he tangles it out of his jacket. Russia would be tipping towards midnight already, but he knows a certain window of a certain apartment block would still glow yellow, and its inhabitants would crowd in the kitchen in front of the old TV. 

He calls Grandpa, trembling fingers struggling to find the right keys and he’s not sure if it’s adrenaline or exhaustion or both.

‘Deda!’ He exclaims as soon as the long beeps of waiting are replaced with static, call struggling to stabilise. He really ought to get Grandpa a better phone than the ancient brick he’s had for decades…that can wait, of course.

‘Deda, I…Did you see?’ He asks, all ill-contained elation, though he doesn’t doubt the answer for a second. Deda never misses his performances, even when he can’t be there in person.

‘Yurochka,’ Nikolai sighs into the phone, and there’s phantom tears of pride hiding in every syllable. He’s never been a man of many words, but he made up for it with how they brimmed with emotion. Scant words of praise wash over him, and it reminds him of life-worn hands tucking a downy blanket around his shoulders just as he dozes off, or his grandmother’s woven shawl that drags behind him as he walks.

‘Thank you,’ Yuri wills for his voice to stop shaking. ‘I…I tried my best,’ and it’s alright if he sounds stupid because the longest fanciest words in this galaxy and the next few parallel dimensions can’t convey what this actually feels like.

‘How about it?’ Nikolai laughs, and in these moments Yura basks in reassurance that it’s alright to feel _proud_ of yourself, once in a while. Then someone else wrestles the receiver from him – he recognises the neighbour from across the landing, Aunt Dasha – there’s someone who’s never once suffered of verbal deficiency. A string of congratulations segmented by expressions of worry – you must be so tired, you’ve gotten so thin, don’t you want a haircut? – he doesn’t notice himself spacing out a bit.

 

A memory wanders by, and he’s not too certain why it’s there  – Moscow in winter,  the coldest winter in his childhood, the one where water froze in the pipes and the radiators gave out. Even after they’ve shovelled it out, the car wouldn’t run properly – the old Zhiguli engine wheezes worse that Yuri himself, just coming off annual sickness.  They have to walk to the rink.

Perhaps Deda shouldn’t be outside in this weather   - minus 27 isn’t amazing for anyone’s  health; but Yurochka wants to train, so they fight their way through the snow. Yura learns people are vile when he spots a tiny ball of fur cowering among the snowdrifts at the back of the outdoor rink, where someone must’ve tossed it out. It trembles when Yuri picks it up with warm bare hands, mittens forgotten on the ground; makes tiny feeble noises when he stuffs it beneath his coat and scratchy scarf, willing his own body heat keep it safe. Yuri can’t actually remember if he cried or not, but he’d bet he was bawling.  Nikolai scolds him softly – they both know they can’t afford a cat right now; but it’ll surely freeze to death outside, and look, it likes him, Yuri, and Deda is just being mean and heartless. If it was summer, Yuri could just run away and live alone with the kitten, like  Uncle Fedor from the telly, and then he wouldn’t need Deda at all!

It’s the first fight that they have, at least of those worth remembering. Instead of skating, Plisetsky-Junior spends the evening convincing the tiny old lady at reception to keep the kitten, voice taut with tears. Look, it’s so small and scared; he’ll even feed it himself whenever he’s at the rink, which is practically every day!  Whatever he blabbered back then, it worked – as far as he’s concerned, Masha the rink cat is still ruling the premises, making an appearance on the old rink’s Twitter now and then. Back home they sit in the kitchen and drink hot tea with milk, and for the first time in his life Yuri has to apologise, mortified by his own embarrassment and by the things he hadn’t meant to say; genuinely has to ask for forgiveness.

Of course, it’s given to him instantly – the same way Nikolai has always given him anything within his power.

‘ –Is Yakov letting you fly back? Is he treating you well? Are you sure you’re eating enough?’ -  he catches Aunt Dasha say before it’s safe to assume his grandfather successfully wrestles the phone  off her, a heroic deed in itself.

‘She always does this,’ Yuri hears him rumble through the receiver. ‘But it would be nice if you could come home for a bit. To celebrate.’

 

 

Victor had said, before, with mock hurt in his voice, that Yuri knew no gratitude, that Agape was really nothing more than an artificial headspace to inspire his performance.

God, he couldn’t have been farther from truth.

 

 

‘I’ll let you know when we’re flying back.’ – and he can almost visualise the tiniest smile hiding beneath Deda’s moustache. Worlds slowly looming closer, the responsibility before his country, the aftermath of Victor annulling his retirement – all that could wait.

‘You did so well.’ His grandfather offers again just before  hanging up. ‘And I’ve always known you could do it, and more.’

Sometimes it’s ok to take a step back and breathe. To recognise the work of his own just as worthy of an unconditional love as everyone else that stood behind it. Why was it proving to be so difficult?

_He did so well._

His heart feels lighter when he hangs up, if only a little.

 

 

He’s still just resting against the wall when footsteps find him, and someone intrudes on this pondering. Yuri turns on his heels, ready to suggest a number of implausible and uncensored alternatives for the offender to be in at this particular moment, but the face in the doorway is anything but unwelcome.

‘I was looking for you.’ Otabek – _Beka_ – starts, and the hesitation in his voice is almost untraceable. ‘But I could see you later, if you prefer.’

‘Now is good.’ Yuri shrugs.

They’ve said their congratulations to one another out on the rink, but it didn’t feel like much at all, orchestrated for the cameras, within the framework of amicable sportsmanship.

Certainly felt nothing like Otabek crossing the space between them, arms spread, and Yuri opens up to him voluntarily, meeting him halfway until he’s enveloped in a solid reassuring warmth.

‘Congratulations.’ Otabek’s chest resonates as he talks; his hand comes to rest on top of Yuri’s head. ‘You were stellar.’

Usually he hates it whenever anyone as much as lays a finger on his hair, at how they straight up ruffle it as if he were a damned child; how come  it’s almost _nice_ when Beka does it? Maybe it’s because he’s so fucking clumsy with it, flat palm against the back of his neck, like one would pat a cat – there’s no way that could ever feel condescending.

If he was an actual cat, he’d probably be purring right now.

Otabek manages to settle another ‘You were amazing’ somewhere into his hair before Yuri reasons congratulatory embraces between fellow skaters don’t usually last for this long, and don’t usually make you feel content and safe and whatnot. The whole concept of the latter – of someone else’s presence, of closeness that isn’t instantly unwelcome  –  it’s  foreign, unfamiliar. Nice unfamiliar, but it doesn’t stop him from tensing up nevertheless.

Yuri pulls back after what seems like a lifetime, and he suddenly wishes he was sprawled out on the ice again, cheek against its cold as a means of dealing with this idiotic blush.

Otabek looks at him with the same expression as then, at the very edge of the Kiss and Cry, clutching that dumb stuffed bear to his chest and smiling. It shifts something in his face so he looks different, younger. Gentle and a little lost.

Yuri wonders if he even _knows_ he’s smiling, if he’s aware of it.

If he knows how that smile creeps beneath his skin and makes something within him contract, like he’s reliving the anxiety that lurks between the edge of the ice and his starting positon in the centre all over again.

It usually disappears as soon as he assumes his stance, before the first chord of his music ever hits, the adrenaline sweeping him into a different headspace entirely. Here, though, there’s nothing to give him an outlet, nothing but white walls and his opponent-turned-friend in the doorway.

He looks for it someplace else.

Luckily there’s something else that had been gnawing at him ever since the placement ceremony had started. How convenient.

‘You placed below that fucking clown.’ Yuri throws himself down at the nearest bench, and it lets out a pitiful squeal at the sudden impact.

 Otabek’s smile falters, something in his face closing off. His shoulders – no, they don’t quite hunch over, but Yuri’s seen enough to know the words hadn’t hit the right target at all. Well, uh,

_i fucked up i fucked up i fucked u-_

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he scowls, fingers digging into the planks. The last thing he wants is to make Otabek feel more belittled for something that must’ve been quite a blow as is, and he’s not sure how to undo it.  

Kazakhstan’s wounded pride just looks at him, and yeah he probably has no choice but to talk now, lest the tension fry his brain completely.

‘You were robbed,’ and Yuri wants to find these damn adjudicators and see the scores with his own two eyes to even consider accepting them as anywhere near accurate.

‘Leroy skated well,’ Otabek exhales through his teeth in something suspiciously close to relief.

‘He forgot to fucking _start_. Almost landed on his ass at the first jump’ His words come out in short outbursts, like trying to eat a pirozhok straight off the oven. ‘You were flawless. Landed every quad. Salchow literally perfect. Step sequence that – ’ the bench gives another feeble protest to how he jerks in his seat, ‘ – that half-plucked chicken wouldn’t even dream of…’

It’s not fair in the slightest. Maybe if he got to share the podium with Chris – he was annoying at times but at least he meant well – or Phichit – he wouldn’t have minded so much, but of all things, why _JJ_ …

The heel of his boot digs into the concrete, additional pressure to the blisters covering the back of his foot. He tears at it with his gaze as if it was at fault – he misses  the moment Otabek begins to laugh.

It’s a strange sound, not one that he’s ever heard before. It’s quiet and dry, and if sounds had scents it’s probably smell like petrol and leather and fresh ice. He hasn’t even said anything remotely funny.

‘ _Priduroshny’_ ,’ Yuri mutters under his breath, but suddenly the tension in his chest isn’t there anymore – instead, a chuckle of his own bubbles up.

‘I thought – ‘ the other skater breathes out once his shoulders still, then shakes his head. ‘Never mind that. I’m happy with how I went. If anything, this will motivate me to fight harder.’

Maybe Otabek was right when he said they weren’t all that different. After all, it’s not like the starting  push for _him_ wasn’t the need to prove Victor wrong in his choice – no matter how far he’s evolved from that today.

‘And you should be, happy, that is.’ He went more than well, if you ask Yuri himself, soaring above the ice like nothing in the world could stop him, coming down to touch the surface like nothing weighted him down. Watching him alone made his muscles tighten, as if trying on the choreography for himself – and that doesn’t happen often, if ever.  ‘But you should also be mad at how you’ve placed.’  

‘Well.’ Otabek inclines his head, and Yuri doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart to the side, towards the doorway, almost as though confirming their privacy. ‘You’re not always going to get the fairest of scores – that’s just part of competition.’

‘Ha.’ Yuri barks, somewhat satisfied at the lack of denial, though it didn’t do much to resolve the problem. ‘You agree with me, then.’

‘It’s not my place to judge. Haven’t we all wished we placed higher at some point?’ Otabek chuckles, and there’s that half-smile again, perfectly calm and content amidst this oddball of an exchange, something between an expression of sympathy and an argument (how different are those really?). ‘That doesn’t mean I’m not happy with how I went. Next time, I’ll just have to make sure my lead is more convincing.’

‘But you _were_ convincing. They’re idiots for not being convinced.’ Yuri knows Otabek is indisputably right, but that doesn’t make the score fair in his regard, so he’s perfectly fine to sulk about it for the sake of it, right? ‘And – and quit just standing there, it’s frustrating!’

 

Otabek seems to take that an invitation to the edge of Yuri’s bench – he sits less than an arm’s length away, legs stretched in front of himself – he must be just as sore. Performances like _that_ push the body to its very limit in an attempt to catch up with the feelings. That’s what makes them so breathtaking. So worth-much-highter-than-a-4 th-place. 

 

‘It’s just stupid. You deserved so much better. Don’t tell me you can’t do anything about it because I know that as it is.’ He clarifies, just in case. ‘Point still stands.’ 

‘I’m glad you seem to think so highly of my skating’, and Yuri swats at his shoulder, even though the other’s tone is dead serious, if not the tiniest bit pleased.

‘Of course I do, idiot. It’d be impossible not to.’ Except maybe according to the judges. Whatever, they don’t know shit.

Something prompts him then, and thinking about for weeks and weeks to come he still won’t be able to figure out if it was the exhaustion, the quest for warmth, or the need to prove to Otabek just how...strongly opinionated he was on the matter. He edges a bit closer – the bench leaves no hope for subtlety with how it keeps squeaking – and closer still, and then his arms are awkwardly wrapped around Beka’s shoulders, their torsos squishing together at an angle that just can’t be comfortable. It doesn’t last very long, but it probably got the point across, right? If he even had a point to begin with.

‘I should be saying congratulations to you, too.’ He concludes, snuffling in distaste, and by all means of logic his face shouldn’t be red anymore, it should be the colour of charcoal; it’s burnt to nothing. ‘Medal or not.’

He cannot bring himself to look at Otabek’s face when he finally pulls away –  the other’s reaction can remain a mystery.

‘Does it bother you that much?’ a more or less _positive_ mystery, he extrapolates from how there’s suddenly a weight on his shoulder, and Otabek’s arm pulls him a bit closer. He definitely doesn’t lean into it just a little.

‘Shut up.’ There, now he can hide his face against the overly bright yellow-blue of that team jacket. Better. ‘I just think it should have been you up there.’

‘Then, would you like to know something about today?’

Yuri makes a muffled sound that could be agreement or protest into the general vicinity of Otabek’s arm; the Kazakh chooses to interpret it as the former.

‘Today is special because I saw you win.’ His voice is quiet, every word for Yuri alone to hear, empty room or not. ‘That alone had felt like victory.’

‘Huh?!’

‘To be a part of your performance, of your battle.’ Otabek presses a hand to the bridge of his nose, as if trying to conceal embarrassment, but he’s still smiling. ‘To support you as your friend. It felt like your gold was for me, too, if only just a little bit.’

 

_It’s also ok to let others be proud of you._

 

‘Beka.’ It’s the first time Plisetsky actually calls him that to his face. It’s not very soldier-like, mumbling uncertainties without meeting each other’s eyes, so he ends up on is feet again, and Otabek has to tilt his head up to meet his eye.

‘I don’t need to do Four Continents next season, and I’m not assigned to Skate America’ – though he might do the Four anyway, just for an extra bit of a challenge. ‘But guess who is?’

Otabek doesn’t say anything, just points at his own chest with his thumb – a parody of the thumbs-ups that’s essentially their _thing_ now.

‘Precisely.’ Yuri nods; but he won’t be the only one moving on from this season. ‘Who else?’

‘Chris, if he remains for another year?’ Beka makes an educated guess. ‘Leroy?’

‘If you’re gonna go ahead and say I’ve won gold for you today –’  Beka’s eyes on him don’t waver for a second; he doesn’t even seem to be blinking – ‘I expect you to repay me the favour, you know.’

‘Let me guess…’

Yuri doesn’t let him.

‘Win gold at the next tournament you do.’ He demands, and he’s only half-joking. ‘Prove to the world that they’ve underestimated you today.’

‘You want me to beat JJ that badly?’ For the second time, Otabek is laughing, velvety and quiet.

‘Putting him into his place would be a bonus, yes.’ Yuri shrugs – practicality is a virtue. ‘But I also want to see _your_ victory. As your friend.’

He probably sounds ridiculous. Otabek probably thinks he sounds ridiculous and is going to laugh at him – but then again he hadn’t laughed when he needed straight up _saving_ from his fangirls, or when Yuri accidentally spilt water all over himself at the café, or when they were going through his Instagram and Beka saw the ancient photo of all the stuffed cats he’s kept till this day.

Otabek doesn’t laugh now, either. Instead, he holds out his hand, palm upwards, just like at the birth of their friendship. Two band-aids criss-cross over his thumb – he must’ve cut himself while getting changed.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he smiles, teeth flashing white.  His hand is warm in Yuri’s, and he can feel the slightest callouses across the top of his palm. Briefly, he wonders what other marks he carries, whether the ice had given him the same bruises as he knew for himself.

‘That better be a promise.’ He spits, pulling onto Otabek’s hand, prompting him to rise again. He doesn’t realise he, too, is smiling.

 

 

 

 

Yakov almost doesn’t let him go to Skate America. Almost. Yuri Plisetsky risks missing out on all the inspiration and motivation that comes only from being within the authentic environment, and is almost doomed to stagnate and wallow in the lack of such. Feltsman had raised an eyebrow at that – Yuri, of all his pupils, had seldom lacked drive – but the excuse worked, pretentious as it was.

Otabek’s body heat seeps through his costume, his arms tight around the small of Yuri’s back. The gold medal is wedged between them and Otabek’s smile outshines every trophy in existence – and  yet again, Plisetsky is victorious.

This time, pride comes easy.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i know there's been some drama regarding this, so i'd just like to note that i 110% respect JJ placing over Otabek as per Kubo-sensei's intent. 
> 
>  
> 
> 'Aunt' in this case isn't a biological relative, just a lady they know as a family.
> 
> 'Uncle Fedor' - a Russian childrens' novella/cartoon character notorious for running away from home because he can't keep a stray cat he found and living in the countryside with magical talking animals. 
> 
> 'Priduroshny' - i think the closest english translation would be the r-slur, so let's go with 'idiot' instead (rus) 
> 
>  
> 
> find me [here on tumblr](http://prismatic0re.tumblr.com/)


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